


Long Day at the Office

by fusspot



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Oral Sex, POV Female Character, POV Second Person, Workplace Sex, galra - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 00:56:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16882584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fusspot/pseuds/fusspot
Summary: Vin is a workaholic who doesn't know the meaning of relaxation, so her superior officer takes it upon himself to show her.





	Long Day at the Office

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a dumb thing I wrote to accompany a piece of fanart I did a while back. This hasn't been beta read, and I'm not bothering with edits. It just kind of is what it is.

     “The quality of your work never ceases to impress me, Vin.”

     The remark comes seemingly out of nowhere, a voice just barely catching your ear over the hiss of your plasma cutter. It’s not enough to startle you, but you can feel yourself bristle nevertheless, the hairs along your shoulders standing on end at the unexpected intrusion. You don’t even bother to hide the snarl that curls your lip as you turn to confront the offender, but it begins to soften the very instant you recognize the familiar silhouette that stoops over another of your work stations, rimmed by the dim violet lighting filtering in from the corridor.

     His lanky frame bowed in thought, Lieutenant Tarnov seems not to even notice your reaction as he runs his slender fingers over the body of a prototype you’d been tinkering with some vargas earlier— _too many_  vargas, you figure, now that you’ve extracted yourself from your work long enough to consider the time. The armory is strikingly empty, the others having long finished their work for the day. You start to wonder just how late it is, and for all you know, it could likely already be time for your next shift to begin. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time you’ve worked the night away like that.

     "What time is it?“ you mutter, all but shrugging off Tarnov’s comment.

     "Too late for you to still be down here, I’d wager.” His tone is a bit snide despite the nearly unreadable expression he wears. “It is a shame that your talents are wasted cataloging guns instead of creating them.” He shoots you a sidelong glance. “In an official capacity, at any rate. I daresay I almost fear what your answer would be if I were to ask how much of your personal time you spend on these side projects of yours.” He looks to the cutter clutched tightly in your hand, its tip still flickering, pointed at him as though you were aiming a pistol—force of habit, you realize as you sheepishly release the trigger and allow your arm to drop to your side.

     "You presume too much if you think that I would know the answer to that even if you  _did_ ask,“ you chide him, letting your back thump against the table behind you in what you know has to be the first break you’ve taken since your shift began. But already it’s too much for you, the dip in your momentum letting exhaustion begin to seep in through hairline cracks in your resolve. It isn’t long before you’re shielding a yawn behind your free hand—one that the Lieutenant catches judging by the tiny smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

     "No doubt.” There’s something in his tone that instantly sets your teeth on edge. Something knowing, as though you’ve just said something funny and yet you’re the last to catch on to the joke. The irritation lingers as the lieutenant begins to circle the room, taking in the landscape of scattered components, humming fabricators, and weapons laying across benches, still awaiting inspections that should have been completed long ago. And they would have been, had your colleagues not made a habit of letting the scut work fall to you at every turn.

     "Do not mind the mess, Sir.“ you mutter, grudgingly watching him for as long as you care to before you simply shrug and wheel back around, reigniting your cutter with a flick of your fingers. "I assure you, I will have it all situated before I retire to my quarters.” You figure he’ll write you up for the mess despite your plea. It seems to be something of a sport among those in Command, after all, finding newer and more irritating ways to torture their underlings. Tarnov’s never given off that vibe, but neither would you put it past him to pull the ‘surprise inspection’ card on you when you’re least prepared for it.

     Even the most charming people have their cruel side.

     You find it difficult to maintain that cynicism, though. Of all the officers you’ve had to deal with, Tarnov’s given you the least reason to distrust him. He’s always been cordial. Always complimentary. He’s always come to you specifically whenever he’s had something in need of repair. Even now, he seems genuinely interested as he looks over your work, using the greatest care to pick up an antique of a pistol that you’ve spent countless vargas stripping, cleaning, and reconstructing simply for the sake of having done so. There’s little mistaking his smile, amusement flickering in his eyes as he peers at you from over his shoulder, holding the object aloft.

     "It has been a number of decafebes since I’ve seen one of these,“ he comments, slipping his finger around the trigger and giving it a little test pull. Lacking a power cell, the pistol failed to respond, though Tarnov’s smile only grew wider, regardless. "It must have taken quite a bit of time to restore it to such a pristine state.” You can feel his gaze again on you again. You involuntarily shrink back, the compliment he’s given you feeling out of place in contrast to the criticism you always receive from everyone else. “How long?”

     You let your shoulders bob in a bit of a shrug as you again try to bury yourself in your work, pressing the tip of the cutter to a length of pipe which you carefully rotate beneath your palm. “Several quintants.” Cumulatively, you note to yourself. A hundred and twenty-seven vargas, to be exact, though even you have to admit that it’s embarrassing that you’d spend so working on a single weapon. Most normal soldiers would spend their R&R time carousing, or getting into some kind of trouble, or finding company to spend their nights with. But you? No. You spend nearly all of your time with inanimate objects, and that fact is beginning to get under your skin a little more than you’d like.

     You try to hide your frustration, stashing it under a furrowed brow and a scowl that all but gives it away, regardless. At the very least, you hope it’s enough to give Tarnov the hint that his visit should have been at its end long before now. He doesn’t seem to catch on, though. His footsteps are lost to the noise of the cutter, but you can still sense him coming closer, until you can just barely catch him from the corner of your eye as he steps up behind you, leaning over to try and get a closer glimpse at what you’re doing.

     "Do you never stop working?“  The query stops you cold, like a criminal caught in a searchlight. You’re well aware of what he’s getting at, that you keep yourself far busier than what is usually considered healthy, and you don’t disagree. But you’d also hoped that it wasn’t that obvious, that the armory was just busy enough with its hustle of bodies shuttling supplies here and there that you could simply while away the time getting lost in your work.

     But you hadn’t accounted for someone like Lieutenant Tarnov—someone a little more eagle-eyed than the others, someone who would actually bother to waste his lecturing a lowly armory grunt like you on your habits. Even now, you feel yourself cringe expectantly, waiting for him to launch into some spiel about how you should take better care of yourself, and how you’re turning yourself into a liability to the Empire with your behavior.

     Instead, he remains oddly quiet, and with a glance over your shoulder you catch his ears folding back as he peers back at you with a look you rarely see on the faces of those around you; he actually seems concerned.

     "You will find yourself in an early grave if you do not rest once in a while, you know,” he offers, taking another step closer. At this point, you can swear you feel his breath on the top of your head, and the weight of a hand resting at the small of your back. “Have you ever taken any time just for yourself since you arrived here?” You feel him begin to eclipse you, his larger form barring you from your surroundings, from the work laying strewn about practically begging to be done. You care little for this interruption, you tell yourself, the need to keep to the task at hand bubbling up like an unbearable tension in your chest, your shoulders, even your head. It threatens to burst forth from every pore if you don’t do something to relieve it, and for a moment you find yourself gripping your plasma cutter all the tighter, as if you actually ponder raising it against him.

     "This is my time,“ you growl, fending off his question with a withering glare. "I spend it as I please, and working just happens to be the thing that pleases me most." 

    Tarnov sighs, his features falling, turning almost helpless. "You are certain that is the only thing that pleases you?” His fingers flex, his grip tightening around your waist and pulling you further in. “Work, and nothing else?”

     "I don’t see how my welfare should concern you.“ You try to make yourself chafe at his touch, stubbornly remembering other would-be suitors who had dared to get this close to you. You can practically count down in your head the moments until his gentle facade drops away, and he resorts to the kinds of things most any male would try upon finding himself alone with one as small as you are. 

     But what you’re expecting never comes. His hand never wanders from its perch, doesn’t even move save for the rhythmic, reassuring squeeze of his fingertips. He still looms over you, but the aura he gives off lacks the kind of hostility that you’ve come to expect from a soldier. Rather, he’s content as he is now, simply standing there next to you, waiting for the awkwardness to dissipate before he speaks again. And when he does, his words come as a soft murmur that vibrates against your temple.

     "By all rights, it shouldn’t.” His tone is warm and even, his voice low enough that even if there were others around, only you could likely hear him. “Call me selfish, but, I believe I would benefit more strongly from a well-rested weaponsmith tending my equipment as opposed to the mess of frayed nerves you have let yourself become.” His free hand sneaks its way in between the two of you, a pair of fingers catching your chin and tilting it upward so he can look you in the eye. Despite the hint of sarcasm lacing his words, everything about his gaze projects sincerity. “I think I know how I can help, if you wish it.”

     At that moment, when his eyes finally catch yours, you feel as though your heart just stops. But for the first time since the start of the conversation, you can also feel yourself beginning to relent, the tension in your shoulders uncoiling itself like a snake falling dead from its tree, stricken by the strange chill that spreads its way across your skin. It’s not unpleasant in the slightest; rather, it feels light, tingling, radiating further with every stroke of his thumb against your cheek or the fond nuzzle of his nose pressed to yours. 

     "Let me help…“ he reiterates, and before you can answer him, a fluttering rush awakens itself in your chest at the light peck of a kiss that he gives you. It lingers for only a moment before he pulls back, studying, seemingly waiting for one of the outsize reactions you’ve become somewhat infamous for. And for a moment, it feels like you might cave to your old habits and just sock him right across the jaw. The urge never comes, though. You don’t even move a muscle to strike him. You don’t want to. More than that, you actually want to feel a conclusion to the slight tickle that he left on your lips. It draws you closer to him again, your gaze dropping shyly as you tilt your face upward and seek to continue what he started.

     The lips that greet you are neither harsh, nor violent; it’s not the usual kiss of someone seeking to take from you. The Lieutenant only gives, pressing only when you do, pulling you in only when he feels the tug of your arms that have somehow found their way around him without you even knowing it. What you feel is something that had long felt like it was missing, but you were never cognizant of it until just now, as you become mired in a sudden need that diffuses itself throughout your body. He seems to pick up on this, all but gathering you up in his arms and smothering your lips, your jawline, your neck… everywhere he can reach that isn’t covered by your armor as he easily hefts you up into his grasp and carts you away to the rear of the armory.

* * *

     The next conscious thought you have doesn’t come until some time later, your eyes opening to the sight of your body bared to the waist, your suit peeled open and your thighs draped across broad, armored shoulders. All around you, the darkness is a haze of pinks and purples, the rest of the world a faint blur compared to your focus: Tarnov, his golden gaze fixed on your face as he buries his between your legs. Already he’s hard at work, lapping, licking, smothering your long-neglected nethers with a tongue more skilled than you could ever have dreamed. Already it’s damned near impossible to keep yourself quiet, the faint barbs of his thick muscle finding every part of you, laving over every fold, dipping in and out in an intricate pattern that has you practically dancing on the ledge on which he’s perched you.

 

 

     Though he can say nothing, occupied as he is, there’s a look of satisfaction that has melded its way into Tarnov’s features. Your reaction is exactly what he’s hoped for, his ears flicking eagerly with every sigh he draws out of you, his eyes sloping closed when he no longer needs to see you to know that he’s on the right track. A soft purr vibrates in his throat, carrying all the way through to the tip of his tongue as he nestles his face in that much more, every lap becoming slower, more deliberate, utterly lascivious in how he delves in and physically draws each ragged gasp from your body.

     In all your years of suffering the company of self-serving men, you’ve never felt anyone pay you this kind of attention. It’s a fact that all but rears up and slaps you in the face as, far too soon, you feel yourself careening out of control, your thighs pulling taut around the sides of Tarnov’s head and yours falling back as white-hot electricity wracks you from the top of your head to the tips of your curling toes. Even if you’d wanted to loose a cry, you wouldn’t have been able for the way utter shock has stolen your voice away, leaving you to simply gasp and gulp for air as you ride out the waves of the very first climax that you haven’t had to give to yourself.

     Despite how you thrash in his grip, Tarnov only redoubles his efforts, his hands sliding their way to your rump and digging in so he can grip you all the tighter, his mouth opening wide to drink you in. He makes a show of it, violently shaking his head, growling and nuzzling into the meat of your loins like a predator relishing a fresh kill. You want to tell him to stop, that it’s too much to take, but the way he delights in the taste of you stays your hand just long enough for an aftershock to send you arching into him again. Another follows in rapid succession, and another still, each stealing more of your sight, sending you spiraling further into the field of stars that’s burst into your vision. And then slowly, surely, they begin to melt into the dull, throbbing heat that cradles you as you fall, and for a moment you could swear you catch sight of Tarnov smirking up at you before pure exhaustion tugs your eyelids closed.

* * *

     You awaken to perfect darkness some vargas later, unsure of where you are until a quick feel about your surroundings confirms the bed you’re on to be your own. Still groggy, you find it a struggle just to raise your hand and slap it aimlessly at the wall in a half-hearted bid to find the controls for the lights. Somehow you manage to turn them on, though even the lowest setting has you blinking against their brightness. Shielding your eyes with your forearm does little to help, though it does bring to your attention the flashing message indicator on your wrist. Before that, however, you notice the time—or more specifically, the fact that it’s been almost two vargas since your shift was supposed to have started.

     Any lingering grogginess turns instantly to panic, your eyes darting around the room in search of your uniform, only, you discover a moment later that you’re still wearing it. And then another beat passes, and you find yourself being assaulted by images from the night before, memories that are foggy, yet far, far too sharp for you to simply have dreamt them. There’s a brief weakness in your knees, and for a split second you feel as though you might just collapse back into your bed, but a chirp from your communicator rips you back into the present, reminding you again of just how late you’re running.

     You don’t even bother to run your fingers through your locks as you dive for the door, but just as you’re about to hammer the opener, something stops you: a scrap of paper stuck to the mirrored black surface with a magnet, a hasty note scrawled across it.

     ” _Check your messages, then go back to sleep”_ , it reads. Cryptic, but it has you curious. You fall backward a step, glancing to your wrist, and after a moment’s hesitation you tap the indicator light. At once, Lieutenant Tarnov’s voice comes to life in a message time-stamped seven vargas ago.

     "I hope this message finds you well-rested, Vin,“ he begins, his tone tinged with amusement. "I feared at first that I had bored you to sleep last night, but then I realized just how  _late_  it was. I took the liberty of informing your superiors that you had to take a day of rest. They did not seem pleased by this, but they will simply have to deal with it.” A voice from the background cuts in, the words indiscernible, but whatever is dividing his attention seems urgent judging by the stranger’s delivery. Tarnov clears his throat a moment later, muttering under his breath. “Anyway... Ah… Well, I hope that you enjoy your down time. Perhaps you could use it to… 'reflect’ on things, as it were. And if you should care to pick up where we left off, you may use this frequency to contact me. Suffice to say, I am looking forward to our next meeting, should one come to pass. Until then.”

     You stand there, dumbfounded as the message comes to its end. This time, however, you give into your weak knees, stumbling backward until the edge of your bed catches you and you simply fall back into the mattress with a grunt. You’d had your doubts as to what had happened, but there on your wrist was all the evidence you could ever need, given to you by the Lieutenant himself. At once, you feel a nearly unbearable warmth filling your cheeks and spreading its way to the tips of your ears, no doubt reddening them to match. In a mad scramble, you grasp for your blankets, whipping them over yourself and curling up as though you could simply hide from your sudden embarrassment.

     …No, not embarrassment. Guilt? Failure? Crushing defeat at fact that you’ve been so adamant for so long, only to let someone slip past your walls in a moment of weakness?

     It’s funny, though. You don’t remember it like that. When you close your eyes and think back on the moment, all you can remember is the look of adoration in his eyes and how it made your heart sing to be wanted like that. To be wanted by someone like  _him_. Just thinking about it fills you with the same warmth you remember feeling last night, chasing off the doubts that gnaw at the back of your mind. You can’t help but feel like you want to relive this, and without another thought you reach for your side table, grabbing the datapad off of it and hammering the Lieutenant’s frequency into the dialer. And then, sucking in a deep, steadying breath, you press 'Record.’

**Author's Note:**

> If you've read this on Tumblr, then you'll know I had to change one of the names because oh no, DW just had to go and use 'Branko' for a canon character. It's pretty much the same, otherwise.


End file.
